


Detour

by icedteainthebag



Category: The X-Files RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-18
Updated: 2008-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-21 19:19:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icedteainthebag/pseuds/icedteainthebag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two warm fingers. Eight frostbitten ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Detour

**Author's Note:**

> This is all [](http://dashakay.livejournal.com/profile)[**dashakay**](http://dashakay.livejournal.com/)'s fault. Well, and DD and GA for being so totes hot. To hell in a handbasket with me, all of you. Wouldn't _that_ be a trip. ;)

It's dark, ominous, and foggy in this rainforest that's anything but tropical surrounding them, stuck in the middle of fucking nowhere in an idling studio fleet Ford Taurus with the heater that, naturally, is blowing ice cold air in their faces.

"Jesus Christ," he breathes as his legs shake the car, they're shaking so hard. His fingers have to be frozen. He can see his own fucking breath. It's nearly as bad as shooting that motherfucking movie, cold as hell, wet and in the snow. Sometimes he feels like a whore. This is one of those times. "Tell me why the fuck we're here again?"

She's shivering in her blue lightweight jacket, her tiny frame nearly drowning in it. Her hair is an absolute mess--he knows she hates the humidity here, how her hair curls and frizzes and looks like hell. This is one of those times. He wants to bury his face in it and, well, why the hell not, bury his cock in her pussy while he's at it.

Instead, he watches her as she puts her hands in front of the vent and nearly hisses at the cold air that hits her skin. She turns it off and crosses her arms over her body. "Something about a mothman?"

His laughter--it's not funny, but mildly amusing in its absurdity--is a little jittery from the cold. He feels the damp ache in his bones, too many hours out in the middle of the forest, on a log, in the dark, spouting some nonsensical bullshit about sleeping bags and wrestling. He was so tired of Mulder's lack of sex drive--if he knew the guy in person, he'd slam him up against the wall and yell in his face to just fuck her already. "What the fuck is _wrong_ with you!" he'd yell. And then he'd probably go fuck Scully himself.

Which he already has, her alter ego anyway. Several times. Several places. But he tries not to think about it as they shiver in the Taurus together.

"Vancouver," she breathes, "is way too goddamned cold for my tastes. I am so fucking glad we're moving to L.A. Have I said that yet?"

"A few times." He's cold. Too cold. He can feel his fingers aching and tingling, and he thinks about his favorite warm places--not Kauai, more like her cunt--and berates himself for thinking about putting his hands where he'd love to put his hands right now. "I think my fingers are turning blue."

She looks over at him and the thought passes between them and he feels extensively grateful when she grabs his hand and pulls it toward her.

"You weren't kidding," she says, and presses his hand to her mouth, her hot breath on his frigid fingers, and then just as he thinks it, she does it. She sucks one finger past her lips, then another, and her mouth is so hot and wet he nearly goes through the roof of the goddamned car.

She basically gives his fingers head while she stares at him, like she's having some earth-shattering epiphany behind those blue eyes. He watches in awe and his cock is hard and hopeful. Gillian has a wild streak in her, the same streak that has an affinity for being tied up, the same streak that she used to convince him to let her ride him in a dark corner of a soundstage, late at night, wickedly whispering that she hoped somebody was watching.

His fingers pop from her mouth audibly and he holds back a disappointed sigh. Two warm fingers. Eight frostbitten ones.

"You know," she says, her voice dripping like honey, her hand sliding over his frigid thigh, "It's been a long time for us."

He knows it's been 64 days. Some odd hours. Some odd minutes. What the fuck ever. 64 days.

Her palm presses against his trapped cock and he sucks in breath through his teeth. "64 days," he says.

She giggles, and the sound drives him purely mad. "You've kept track, David? That's pretty fucking sad."

He knows it is pretty fucking sad indeed. He feels sad for about three seconds. She tugs down his zipper, slides her cold hand into his boxers. Goodbye, sad. Hello, happy. He yelps at her freezing fingers on his cock. "Jesus Christ, that's cold."

"Sorry," she says, pulling him out, scooting a little closer. "I'll make it warm again."

Her breath on his cock sends him reeling and the back of his head hits the headrest. And then she's silky hot and wet around him, drawing him in, her shock of red hair in his lap. He doesn't know where to put his hands and they linger in the air. What a nice fucking surprise. Suddenly, he loves Vancouver again. He loves the dark, ominous forest and Ford Tauruses.

It's a love/hate thing.

He tries to feel bad when he feels her tongue sweeping over his cock. He honestly does. But he just can't work up the guilt. What kind of man would put the brakes on a little driver's seat head? Not this man. Not in a million fucking years.

She sucks him harder, sliding up and down on his cock, and she starts hmmming and he can feel her mouth vibrating around him. "Jesus," he says, putting a hand on her back.

He slips out of her mouth for a cold moment. "My hair," she gasps. "Pull on it."

And then she sucks him back into her mouth. He nearly cries with glee, but she would laugh at him, and that would mean she'd have to stop sucking, so he holds in his excitement.

Instead, he obeys her and slides one hand through the back of her hair, tangling into the slightly damp, curling strands that slide silkily around his fingers. "Fuck, Gillian," he breathes, jerking his hips lightly, pulling at her head.

She takes him in--all the way in, as deep as she can, and he whimpers and his toes curl and the tingle shoots down his legs and he feels the insides of her cheeks against his cock as she sucks, then slides, and sucks, and he's not a minute man but this is a Herculean task, holding off while her sweet mouth is fucking him in the middle of a Vancouver rainforest.

"Do it," she breathes onto his cock, running her tongue around the head, sliding it down, sucking him in again.

He's an obedient man at heart and always does what he's told. This is his justification for coming, for fucking her mouth with little thrusts of his hips, because she wants him to, because it's just the right thing to do. And because the tight suck of her mouth is now completely unbearable.

He groans and slams his feet against the floorboard, pushing his body back against the seat as he comes into her mouth, his hand woven into her hair, and the fleeting thought of the moment is that he is so fucking glad his foot didn't hit the accelerator.

He feels her swallow and winces and wonders what he tastes like.

She pulls away and looks into his eyes, licking her lips.

"I wonder if the heater's working now?" she asks innocently, blinking doe eyes at him.


End file.
